


Connections

by KimHoppy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8613655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimHoppy/pseuds/KimHoppy
Summary: Some people don't realize they are lonelySome people do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> While not set in a particular time period, Aziraphale and Crowley have only been on Earth about 1000 years.

The sky was beautiful, clear and pristine with shafts of light breaking through the clouds like paths to the sky, and the air filled with the caramelized sweetness and all seemed at peace.  Unheard by human hears, the faint celestial harmonies sang and, as the clouds shifted so that one by light beams disappeared, faded until all that was left was sweet birdsong.

From under a bush, a snake’s head appeared and, insomuch as a snake good, looked around suspiciously before glaring up at the sky.  “Bloody ssssshowy bassstards,” it hissed.  Another second later and a young man appeared, dark hair and good cheekbones and dressed in the rich robe colors of a well-to-do merchant.    “It’s about time,” he muttered, walking down the path towards the town and shaking his clothes of dust and small rocks.  He’d been hiding in the brush for the past week and was _not_ amused.  Someone in Hell was getting a strongly worded scroll about this.[1]

He needed a good goblet of wine and then a fast horse[2] out of this town.

On the outskirts, an old beggar held up beseeching hands.  As a snake, he’d watched the man plead with everyone who had passed, resulting in a harsh kick or harsher indifference.  The entire time, only a handful had given him anything, and as that handful _hadn’t_ included those who had just departed, the young man smugly dropped down a handful of golden coins in front of the man.

“Thank you, kind sir, thank you!” the beggar said, greedily grabbing the gold in a way that made the man smile, the coins dropping heavy in the bowl.

“Don’t mention it.  No, really, don’t, but don’t stop,” he added, walking inside as the man kept his repeating his thanks.   The ego-stroking made him hum with pleasure, but his ears caught something that wasn’t singing his praises.  He stopped and pivoted, cocking his head.  “What did you say?”

“Oh, kind sir, good sir, so good, so kind,” the beggar babbled.

He bent and flashed a large coin between his fingers.  The beggar focused on it hungrily.  “What did you say?”

“Sire, sir, please, please,” the old man begged, holding his hand.  “Have pity on a poor soul.”

“What did you say?” he repeated.

“Only, only thanks, you have saved my life, oh lord, so few spare, thank you, please, please,” he whispered.

He looked at beggar, then down at the wooden bowl he knew had been given just this morning, licked clean.  “Which way,” he said, pointing at the bowl, “did he go?”

The beggar gestured and the young man dropped the coin and ignored the resultant scrambling and thanks.  He briefly considered running, but given his past week, it would have been beneath him.

He followed the way the beggar had indicated, which was away from town and wine.  There was a moment when he lifted his head and appeared to sniff the air, and a flash of a long tongue, and then he swore and started through the long underbrush.  The briars and thrones tried to rip at his clothes, but a glare at them kept the seams.

Despite all his best efforts, at the clearing he floundered and tripped, and barely caught himself before he hit the ground with a bruising speed.

“Oh, I kne—oh, it’s just you,” an old, familiar voice said.

He pushed himself up, attempting to ignore his entrance, and smoothed his hair.  “Just me?” he mocked, coming over to collapse next to the other man.  “Do you know what kind of week I just had, angel?”

“I shouldn’t imagine,” the other said, not looking at his new companion as he wrapped his arms around his legs.

“You shouldn’t!  Ordered here, do you know how _boring_ it is here, there’s not even a proper vinery nearby, and then I just get settled and the trumpets are blaring and like fifty angels are floating down, all smite-happy buggers!”

“Fifty?”

“Well, there were a lot,” he sniffed, uninterested in corrections.  “More than me.”  He started a long and rather embellished story of his week risking loss of limb[3] as he bravely avoided capture and followed the enemy is an effort to figure out what the Hel—that is, what was even going on.  He took a break in his monologue to swallow from his water skin[4] before offering, “Thirsty?”

“No thank you, my dear,” the other said, barely audible.

“What’s with you?” he frowned, leaning forward to try to get a look at his companion’s face.

“Nothing,” was the reply and a face hastily turned away.

The young man’s expression twitched.  “Are you … are you _crying_?”

As if seeing no point to keep up the charade, the other sniffed and managed to produce a rather ornate piece of cloth to dab at his eyes and rub his red nose.

“What’s going on?” the younger asked, honestly confused and, at the snot and wetness, disgusted.  “Why are you crying?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

He nodded in amiable agreement, still baffled and now uncomfortable.  “Erm, I can go?”

The sniffing was even worse, but a watery smile said, “Oh, you don’t have to, I’m sorry, I’m being dreadful company.”  He tried to straighten himself and wiped at his face, but the whole charade fell flat.

“It’s all right, I’ve got plenty to do in town.”  Despite the words, he didn’t move, because it was just awkward, and he still hadn’t figured out how to get out of awkward situations even with the amount of experience he’d had.  He pulled at a sapling behind him, bending it and watching it spring back when he let go.  A small beetle flung off and made him hiss with amusement, but a glance at his companion sobered him.

He rubbed at his neck.  “So, ah, I guess, must have been nice working with the office.  Almost jealous.”  He lost himself in an unexpected turn of bitterness and continued, “Course, _I_ don’t need help.  But I guess they probably just don’t trust you and think you’re doing a rubbish job.”

He quickly backpedaled when his companion released a barely suppressed sob.  “Of course, what do they know, you’re doing a great job!” he added quickly, slapping a hand on the other’s shoulder, which apparently was the wrong thing to do, because the sobs were just louder.  He looked away and made a pained, lost face, and mumbled, “There, there.  Don’t, erm, don’t cry.  Please.”

“You’re a good friend, Crawly.”

“Oh, it’s, erm, Crowley now.  Just got the notice.”

His friend ceased crying and managed a truer smile.  “They approved it?  How wonderful for you.  I’m so … so happy.”

“Well, it’s not a complete name change,” he said, but he was still pleased.[5]  He’d been practicing his new signature for ages and was nearly satisfied with it, and he almost couldn’t wait until he had to send his next report.

“I know you’ve been working on it for the past few centuries.”

“I’m thinking I might put in an addendum,” Crowley admitted, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles.  “The humans, you notice they’ve got that habit of adding more names.  I think it’s in case there’s a bunch of them and they can’t tell each other apart.  Can’t blame them.”

“There are quite a few of them these days.”

Crowley nudged the other’s shoulder.  “You should get in on it, angel, before everyone else does.  Soon everyone will be changing their names.  You could get something shorter.”

“I like my name.”

“Aziraphale.  You know what that even means?”

“Of course I do, it means –”

“It _means_ ,” Crowley said loudly, “‘I’ve already named a billion buggers and used all the good names, so I’m just gonna mash them up and hope no one notices.’”

Aziraphale’s brow furled and he wiped his red nose.  “That’s not the meaning I was told,” he said slowly.  “Are you sure that’s right?”

“Yes.  Trust me, angel.”

“That’s what you tell everyone, you serpent.  I know where that gets them,” he scolded, disapproval on his face.

“Yeah, then you come messing up all my hard work,” he grumbled good-naturedly.    He considered saying nothing about the crying, but he couldn’t ever leave well enough alone.  “So, uh, everything okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.  That’s good.”  He rubbed his neck again.  “Erm, so … they’re not coming back, right?”

“I shouldn’t imagine so,” Aziraphale said quietly, pulling at a few blades of grass.

Crowley let out a relieved sigh.  “That’s good.   I mean, I saw Disenael, and jeez, I thought I worked with bastards.”

“Disenael was here?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, giving his companion a confused look.

“Did you, erm, did you see who else?” Aziraphale asked.

He had overheard quite a few names, but he wasn’t about to lose all of his valuable intel, even if it was someone who probably already knew everything.  “I’m not on a first name with them.  Why don’t you know?  You were working with them.”

“Yes, of course, we were working together, yes, for the greater good and for … yes, um, thwarting demonic wiles and … yes, all of that.  It’s just, you know, we were working together in a manner that was rather … not … together,” he mumbled, dejected and sniffing.

Crowley stared.  “You weren’t working together?”

“Broadly, _broadly_ we were working together,” Aziraphale insisted.  “Just … not spatially.”

“Angel, you were in the same town, with a population just over marriage will be almost incest.  You can’t have _not_ been working together, this isn’t a den of sin, here.  I’m not a miracle-worker, I don’t work that hard.  No, don’t _cry_!”

He blew his nose.  “I’m sorry.”

“Just … what were they doing here?”

“There was a prophet born.”

Well, he supposed that could be reason for his orders.  “Someone important?”

“All humans are important.”

Crowley sighed impatiently.  “Someone who needed a herald of angels?”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale shrugged, before giving him a sideways glance.  “You’re not going to hurt the child, are you?  I will be morally obligated to stop you and will have to ask you to leave.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Fine, I’ll leave it alone.  Don’t like babies anyway.”  He made a horrified face as he recalled the precise wording of the orders.  “Eh, I think they wanted me to eat it.”

Aziraphale gasped.  “You can’t!”

“Well, you told me I can’t, so I won’t,” Crowley said, face still twisted with disgust.  “I don’t even eat rats.”

“That’s because you don’t have to eat.”

“I can if I want to,” he stated.

“I hope you won’t get into too much trouble,” Aziraphale said.

“Got an excuse.  Is not like they could expect anyone to get past that garrison.  They were pretty … intense.”

“They were merely doing their Holy Duty and would not be distracted, as is proper.”

“And what were you doing, if you weren’t helping them?”

Embarrassed, Aziraphale mumbled, “It is a poor season, everyone is nearly starving.”

“They’re humans, they’re always starving.”

“Perhaps, but I thought, if everyone contributes just a little, everyone could be fed.”  He looked ahead, as if he could see the future.  “I thought … well, if I could inspire them to work together, some in the town will survive and do further good in the world.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” Crowley said, but in a vague way.  “Lots of work, little payoff.”

“The littlest thing can make the biggest difference to one person.”

He snorted.  “Yeah, _one_ person.  Is not worth it.”

Aziraphale shook his head fondly.  “It is, to the one person.  And it is so little effort, one might not even notice they are doing good in the world.  A small enough change, perhaps it carries.  And if it doesn’t, at least one person is better for it.”

“At the expense of everyone else,” Crowley pointed out maliciously, grinning.  But then he frowned and tilted his head.  “They didn’t offer to help you?”

The smile on the angel’s face left.  “They had their Mission.”

“Watching a human get born, it’s not like that’s difficult to do, even for an angel.  And it’s boring and takes forever.  They’ve been here all week, don’t tell me they were just hanging around the hut.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said.  “I did … when I realized they were here, I stopped by to offer my assistance.  They, erm, said they didn’t need my help, I wasn’t assigned to the Mission.”

“Pretty full of themselves.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” he defended.  “I understood.”

“Huh.”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms tighter around himself.  “I did mention, I had hoped, when their Mission was done, perhaps they would like to … but they are obviously very busy.  Of course.”  He sniffed.

Crowley stared at him.  “You wanted to talk to those showy bastards.”

“They _are_ our Brothers and Sisters.”

“Why?” Crowley asked, honestly baffled.  “They weren’t nice, I don’t think I saw them smile at a single human, and I’m pretty sure when they were whispering at each other they were making fun of everyone.  They weren’t nice angels.  Why would you want to talk to them?”

“They were just … it was a middle of a Mission, you don’t know what they were talking about.  You’re a demon.”

Crowley crossed his arms.  “And as a demon, trust me when I say they weren’t nice.  I mean, they hightailed it back to Heaven the second everyone was done, they obviously thought they were too good for the likes of this place.”

“Trust you,” Aziraphale muttered and brushed his eyes again.  “They just very busy, they might have had another Mission.  It’s not for us to know.”

Crowley snorted.  “Face it, angel, they ran off as soon as they could get away with it.”

“They had to have had another Mission,” Aziraphale insisted.  “Why else wouldn’t they had stayed just a little while and talked?  Just a little while.”

He didn’t say anything, because Crowley had learned cruelty a long time ago, all the shades of it, casual to ruthless.  He just stared and watched the angel’s face, as the tears slipped down blotchy cheeks. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed.

They were quiet, except for soft angel tears.

“It’s probably not you,” Crowley said, after a while.  “No one stays on Earth longer than they have to.  Can’t remember the last time any demon offered to hang out with me afterwards.”[6]  He handed Aziraphale a fresh piece of linen.

“Thank you, dear.”  He blew his nose.  “You probably think me foolish.”

“Yes, yes I do.”

“I just … I hoped … I have not spoken with any of them, truly spoken, since before Eden, before my assignment.”  He stared up at the sky.  “Do you suppose they don’t like me?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said without thinking, then cleared his throat.  “Course they like you, they’re angels.  They gotta.”

“It’s just,” he started, twisting the linen Crowley had given him, “this isn’t the first time other angels have come down.  The closest, yes, but it wouldn’t take much to simply pop over to say hello.  Or even to get the lay of the land, as it were.”

“Yeah, they do come up to just release the hounds, have a good laugh, then head back.  Erm, my people, not yours.  Yours … burn bushes, don’t they?”

“In the dry season, during droughts.  It’s … not the way I would choose.”

Crowley snorted a laugh.  “I should hope not.  You’d think they’d figure it out after the third or fourth wild fire.”

“You have to forgive them,” Aziraphale said if way that said he only _had to_ , not that he had to _want to_.  He tended to have a lot of work cleaning up after his Siblings visited Earth.  After all, it couldn’t get out that Agents of God had caused the latest misfortune of humans when they had been trying to tell the humans they were doing A Good Job Do Keep It Up.

“Well, _you_ have to,” Crowley teased.  “I like it when angels do my work for me.  You know how many of those fires and whatnot I took credit for Down Below?”

“Craw—erm, I mean, Crowley!  You didn’t!”

“I did.  They weren’t going to admit they did it, someone might as well.”

“You serpent,” Aziraphale tried to scold, but it didn’t carry as he was also trying not to laugh.  “Well, that would explain why the humans did blame the Devil.”

He stuck out his tongue with a grin and chuckled.  “You’re welcome.”

Aziraphale smiled for a few seconds before the melancholy slid on his face again.  “It would have been nice if they had stayed, for a little while.”

“Speak for yourself,” Crowley said.  “If they had known I was around, they would have razed the town.”

The angel didn’t deny the statement, biting his lip.

“You would have been morally obligated to help,” Crowley said pointedly, and he cleared his throat when he thought he detected he might have sounded hurt.

“Well, yes, but I’m sure the razing would only have happened after you refused to leave after we asked you politely,” Aziraphale tried to believe.  “Of course you would have left, so we won’t have had to do any such thing.”

“Heh, right,” Crowley said, letting the angel believe the lie, because it was a lie and that was part of his job.  It was a nice lie, anyway, where he got to live.  He jumped a little when Aziraphale touched his hand.

“I would not have let them kill you.”

“Why, because we’re friends?” he said, taking his hand back.

“No,” Aziraphale said, and then couldn’t think of a reason.  They weren’t friends, they were enemies, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a good conversation over a cup of wine.  Aziraphale had even stopped silently blessing it, because that always made things awkward when the demon burned his mouth on the first sip and then he’d glare and sulk at him for “ruining perfectly good wine” the rest of the time, even when Aziraphale bought him another.  In the centuries, neither had raised a weapon at the other, instead being civilized about it.  Aziraphale would just ask him to leave, Crowley would say it was boring and leave or he’d grumble that’d he’d been there first, why didn’t Aziraphale leave this time?  Of course, Aziraphale couldn’t just leave Crowley to tempt humanity, he’d have to thwart him, and when it was done they probably won’t see each other for a couple decades because the Earth was a big place, but they’d run into each other again.  They were enemies, they had to run into each other to fight each other.  Erm, battle each other.  That is, meddle in the other’s affairs.

And it would have seemed like such an over-reaction to attempt to kill Crowley, when he’d never tried to kill him first.  And then it would make things ever so awkward, because the next time, wouldn’t Crowley be obligated to try to kill him, and then the next time it would be his turn, and so on and so on, and what if he forgot if it was his turn or Crowley’s, how could one even get that cleared up without it just being a big embarrassment for everyone involved?  No, it seemed best to just not attempt to kill each other when the other didn’t deserve it.

But Aziraphale couldn’t figure out how to phrase this coherently, so he merely said, “We’re not friends, but it would be impolite if I helped them try to kill you.”

“Impolite?  That’s your excuse.  Thanks a lot, angel.”

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale replied.

Crowley sighed.  There was no point with the angel.

“You still are my Brother, even if you have Fallen,” Aziraphale tried, sensing he had hurt Crowley’s feelings.

“Right, and that sucks for you, doesn’t it?  Only one in the family who wants to spend any time with you.  I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, once he realized what he had said.

“So you do think they don’t like me,” Aziraphale said, unable to smile.

“I didn’t _say_ that,” Crowley defended.  “I just said … well, no one spends any time with me, either.  Except you.”

“It’s not their fault, we’re stationed on Earth.”

“They visit and have Missions enough, angel,” Crowley snapped.  He tugged at the sapling again, pulling off a leaf.   “We don’t even like each other, we’re just all each of us has got.”

“You don’t like me either?”

Crowley huffed.  “Course not.  You’re a sanctimonious bastard.  And why should I even like you if you don’t like me?”

“Yes, you’re right,” Aziraphale agreed in a most pained and painful way.  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“We’re enemies, angel.  Working for the big day.”

“Yes, of course.” 

The silence stretched and Crowley continued to abuse the poor sapling. 

“It’s nothing personal, you know,” the demon muttered, stripping a whole branch.  “It’s just what it is.”

“I understand.  It’s quite all right.”

“Well, this has been fun,” Crowley said, standing up and brushing off his robes, “let’s not do it again.”  He was almost to the brush leading back to the path when Aziraphale called him.  “What, angel?”

“Your kerchief,” Aziraphale said, standing and holding out the cloth.

“Keep it.”

He dropped his hand and worried the fabric.  “It … it might not mean the same thing, but I don’t hate you.”

Crowley rubbed his forehead.  “Angel.”

“I do think it’s vitally important you know that.  We might have to be enemies, and we can’t be friends, but I don’t have to hate you.”

“Don’t have to like you, either,” Crowley countered, watching the angel come closer.

“That’s true.”  He stood fiddling with the fabric and looked down at his feet.  “You stayed with me.  I know you didn’t have to do that, and you gave me your kerchief.”

“Don’t mention it.  Ever.”

Aziraphale nodded.  “Of course.  Um, please accept my thanks.”  And he leaned forward and kissed Crowley.

If asked, later, Crowley would claim he was too surprised to move, the angel had been too quick, it had been only a second.  He was a demon, lying was part of his job.  But in reality, Aziraphale had moved slowly, every movement telegraphed and so clear Crowley knew exactly what his intention was, and the kiss lasted long enough he could choose to kiss back, which he did.  It was another thing he’d never admit, but it was the first kind contact he’d had in centuries, even with the subtle sting of angelic grace against his lips.

“Iss that how angelss ssay thank you?” he managed to hiss when they separated.

“Erm, yes?” Aziraphale offered.  He was an angel and he had said thank you, so it technically wasn’t a lie.

“Better than the demon way.”

“I didn’t know demons said thank you.”

“They don’t.”

“How terrible.  And rude,” Aziraphale sniffed and wiped his eyes.  “Good bye until next time.”

Crowley shifted a little, thinking, before asking, “Are you going back to your busy schedule of crying?”

“I don’t see how it matters to you.”

“Well, if you’re gonna cry, I’ll get open access to the village.”  He grinned unrepentant.

Aziraphale clicked his tongue with disapproval.  “Really, my dear, must you threaten?”

“Don’t threaten.” 

“I can’t let you go back to the village to torment those poor souls.”

His grin widened and walked back to the clearing, raising his water skin.  “Well, then, let me tempt you to some wine?”

Aziraphale stared at him, confused, before sitting back down.  He watched Crowley swallow a mouthful before taking up the skin and following suit.  “Hmm,” he said, licking his lips, “not bad.”

“Miracle of my own design,” Crowley bragged. 

“The wine or the bag?” Aziraphale asked, examining the bag and hefting it, reluctantly impressed.

“Both,” Crowley said, always happy to take credit.

“Well, it is very clever.”

“You should see what I can do with bread and fish,” he boasted.

“Make a sandwich?”

“One to kill for.  Should have seen it.  It was glorious.”

Aziraphale shook his head with clinical disgust.  “I use those a little differently when I feed people.”

“Feeding the multitudes with a few loaves and a couple fish, I noticed,” Crowley agreed, taking another gulp.  “I’m shocked no one’s figured out there’s no way you can fit all that in your basket.”

“Humans are blessedly blind,” Aziraphale agreed.

They leaned back and lounged under the sun, trading the water skin back and forth.

“I know why you actually kissed me, you know,” Crowley said, staring at a leaf he was rotating between his fingers.

Aziraphale stiffened.  “To thank you.”

“Sure.  That.”  His eyes traced the veins of the leaf.  “They weren’t nice angels.”

“Of course you’d say that.”

Crowley rolled over onto his side.  “Just because I’m a liar doesn’t mean I lie.”

“That is what liars say.”  Aziraphale pulled at the grass again.  “It is poor taste to speak poorly of one’s colleagues.”

“Damned with faint praise.”  Crowley turned serious.  “I know I was just a substitute.”

“You weren’t a substitute,” Aziraphale said, confused.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Crowley stared at him before giving a huff.  “No, you probably don’t.”  After all, Heaven was always touchy-feely, more accepting of that sort of stuff, even expected it.  It was probably a requirement, something like Hug Thy Neighbor.  Hell was a little more, If You Touch Me I Will Rip Your Arms Off, very This Is My Personal Bubble Cross It And I Will Kill You.  Even a simple business handshake had risk of ending with one less hand than you started with, sometimes possibly even two.[7] 

“What are you talking about?” Aziraphale asked.

“Nothing, never mind.  You wouldn’t understand anyway.  Demon stuff.”

“If you say so.”  The angel considered him.  “Is this something I, as an agent of our Father, should know about?”

“Nah, it’s nothing.”

“Are you lying?”

 “Me?  Never.”  Devilishly, he leaned forward.  “Want to kiss me again?”  He smirked as the angel sputtered, leaned forward, and caught angel.  He didn’t approach neither as slowly nor as obviously as Aziraphale had, instead quick as a snake.  But as before, it was reciprocated, even though Aziraphale felt the burning of hellfire on his lips.

As neither being had to breathe, it was some time before they separated.  Aziraphale smiled absently and Crowley refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Thank you,” the angel said.

“As if I did it for you,” Crowley dismissed, then he caught a glance and had to stretch his neck to make sure.  His eyebrows arched.  “Did you mean to show your wings?”

Aziraphale turned his head and gasped in surprise at the visible wings, as if he hadn’t realized.  “Oh.”  He blushed.  “Sorry.”

“It fine, but you keep your wings like that?” Crowley demanded, sitting up and his fingers twitching.

“Like what?”

“Like that!” the demon exploded, waving at the wings in question.  “Look at them, they’re a mess!”

“They are not!” Aziraphale defended.  “They’re just … it’s cramp … I mean, they’re not that bad.  Are they?” he finished in a quiet voice.

Crowley gave him a look.  “When was the last time you even preened them?  Do you preen them?”

“Of course I preen them.  I just, erm, can’t quite recall the last time I did.”  He stretched one so it bent to lay in front of him and started brushing it with embarrassment.

Crowley only stared, shaking his head.

“I don’t think they look any worse than the others,” Aziraphale said, trying to defend himself.  “Perhaps it is the new fashion?”

“To have your wings look like they were caught in a hurricane?  Fine, that I could believe would be angelic fashion sense.  But you accidentally managing to be in the fashion?”

“Hey!” Aziraphale protested, hurt. 

“You haven’t been in heaven in almost a thousand years.  There’s no way you would have known what the newest angelic fashion was.”

“Well, I’m sure your wings are ….” He trailed off as Crowley extended his majestic and perfectly groomed wings, giving the angel a smug look.  Aziraphale frowned and looked down at his own wing, trying to smooth the feathers with renewed effort, and muttered.  “Pride.  And Vanity.”

“Sloth.  And Envy,” Crowley countered.  “Look, here—”  His moved his hands, but before they could drop down and start to fix this mess – though where would he even start? – the wing snapped back and away.  He jumped and looked up at Aziraphale, whose eyes had widened and seemed poised to fly.  And then he realized what he had been going to do and grunted.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Quite all right,” Aziraphale said, as if he just realized what he had done.  “Just startled me.”

“Right.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat and focused on smoothing a few of the longer primaries he could reach, a self-soothing gesture if ever there was one.   Crowley watched the familiar action.

“Look,” he said, clearing his throat.  “How about a trade?”

“A trade?  An angel does not trade with demons.”

“Fine, if you _want_ me to torment the village and dog your steps for the next decade, bother your little prophet, that’s fine.  You know how bored I’ll be here, I’ll make lots of trouble for you.”

Aziraphale frowned.  “What do you want, serpent?”

“It’s easy, angel,” Crowley said silkily, turning his shoulder.  “You preen my back, I preen yours.  Can never reach all the way.”

“And that’s it?” the angel asked, suspicious, but there was a flick of desire across his face.  Of course, angels were very good at self-denial.

Crowley was very good at making deals, though.  “That’s it.  You wanna kiss on it, seal the deal?” he asked, winking.

“Is that a new Hell procedure?” Aziraphale asked.

He laughed and shook his head.  “No.  Should I suggest it?”

Aziraphale mused.  “As it would make a human think twice about making a deal with a demon, I would have to say yes.”

“Considering it would keep said demons from also wanting to make deals with humans, you would,” Crowley said.

“All demons?  Really?  I’d heard … well, there are rumors, you know,” he leaned over to whisper.

Crowley made a face at the tastes of some of his co-workers.  “Fine, it would keep _this_ demon from wanting to make deals.  Don’t look so surprised, I don’t even eat babies, you think I want to taste any part of humans of any age?”

“That is a relief,” Aziraphale said.  “Very well.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll … we can preen each other.  Your deal seems in Heaven’s favor.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Crowley said in a sly voice and watched the indecision and worry flash.  He clapped his hands and rotated a bit.  “Give me that wing.”

The angelic wings flinched upwards, but under Crowley’s smirk, Aziraphale squared his shoulders and dropped them down by inches.  He watched the demon intently as the closest came into grabbing distance, but Crowley sat as patient as a snake watching a mouse[8] and didn’t reach out until it was shakily set down on his lap.

“There we go,” Crowley whispered, as if he had won a prize or possibly had coaxed a skittish colt to his hand, and softly started to straighten and smooth feathers.  He ignored the minute trembling, or at least he thought he did until he realized he was whispering, “Sshhh, shhh.”  He stopped the noises and said pointedly, “You trying to weasel out of your part, angel?”

The wing jerked a little as Aziraphale babbled.  “Yes, yes, of course.  My apologies.”  Crowley felt hands gently set on his wings and did his best to quell the anticipatory shiver.  “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m dreadfully out of practice,” the angel whispered.

The clearing was quiet again, a fuzzy lull of peace, the breeze blowing the feathers that were removed off into the world.  While there were certainly more ones of angelic origin, there was no visible difference between any of the feathers except perhaps to an indulgent parent.  The sun moved across the sky until it was low and the first stars were coming through.

Their positions had shifted and finally ended reversed during the process, because there really wasn’t much Aziraphale could have improved upon for Crowley’s wings, while there was plenty for the reverse.  Even still, Crowley hummed a content melody he had heard somewhere over the millennia while Aziraphale kept absently smoothing the other’s wing as it bent across his lap.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured once it was fully dark.

“Just a little longer, angel, almost done.”

“That’s not … do take your time.”

Crowley chuckled.  “If I didn’t, you’d be screaming in pain.  Honestly, angel.”

“I know.”  He buried his fingers beneath the feathers.  “I … it’s easier, isn’t to, to not see them all the time?  And you just get busy and … not forget, of course, but time just slips by.”

“Hmm hmm,” Crowley listened.  Personally, he had the opposite problem. 

Aziraphale felt the wing he was stroking roll and shift, subconsciously indicating where the demon wanted touched.  He’d been doing that for a while, instead of simply asking Aziraphale to focus his attentions somewhere or tensing and weathering it when Aziraphale painfully bungled it.  As he suspected, when he stroked the skin, he could feel faint scars that covered, as far as he could tell, every inch of the wings.  It must have been painful, they must still be painful, and he had to squash his innate desire to help.  His angelic healing would, while certainly good in the long-run, probably result in a getting solidly (and perhaps deservedly) punched because it would be excruciatingly painful.  He caressed the delicate skin.

“What happened?” he asked.

Crowley blinked.  “Huh?  What are you nattering about now?”

“Your wings.  It’s just, they’re covered in scars, what happened—”  He stopped when the wing snapped out from under his hands.

“Don’t play stupid, angel,” Crowley growled.

“I’m not, I just … it must have hurt.  Still hurts.”

“Did you figure that out yourself?” he snapped.  “Just gotta rub it in.”

Aziraphale blinked.  “I’m not, I was just concerned.”

“Yeah, sure, your lot was _real_ concerned.” 

He flinched as the demon’s fingers were, for the first time, tugged too painfully.  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Crowley spat.

It was a minute of awkward silence before the pieces fit in Aziraphale’s mind.  “Oh,” he breathed.  “When you Fell.”  He winced again at an unnecessary pluck.  “I am glad they healed.”

“Healed?  Healed!  I can barely fly anymore, you sself-righteouss bassstard,” Crowley snapped, racking his fingers down the other’s wing and eliciting a cry.  Aziraphale pulled away and rubbed the injury, but his expression showed sympathy.  “Don’t look at me like that, don’t you dare!”

Crowley pushed himself away and fanned his wings in such a way that it was an effective cocoon, completely shielding him from Azirphale’s sight like a petulant fledgling.  The wings were still pristine and perfect, and Aziraphale realized now that was all surface.

Of course, the Fall.  He circled himself with his own wings and shivered, remembering the fires, the burning, the horror.  The screams, which he could hear with crystal clarity.  The smell, strong even now in his memory.  It was permeated all of Heaven for a time, it might still for all he knew.  He remembered the blood on the Heavenly floor and on the Sacred weapons, on his robes and face and hands, the sticky sensation, and he saw the faces of those who remains On High as they watched and those that dove down to continue to battle.

He stared at his wings, now smooth and perfect from a demon’s ministrations, imagining them burned away.  The feathers gone, the skin red and raw, and even as it healed unable to fully extend them because the scarring would pull tight.  And the loss of feeling, unable to sense the changes in the air and wind, unable to respond.  And as the feathers finally, painfully growing back in, a never ending molt, having to correct any that came in improperly.  To coax out the feather that wouldn’t grow, burned out at the root.

It would have been a slow, painful process to even give the appearance of perfect wings.  Oh, the Vanity.

But despite the Sin – both that had caused the Fall and what had made someone work so hard to return to a former glory – Aziraphale couldn’t manage a righteous anger.  It was too easy for him to imagine the pain, which had to be enough punishment.

Crowley’s anger might have been making the air colder, or his own guilt.  Aziraphale swallowed and came out from behind his wings, which, honestly, they both were too old to indulge in.  “Erm, Crowley,” he said, hovering his hand over a smooth wing, unsure if he should touch them.

“Go away, angel,” Crowley grumbled.

“I just … look, could you please come out, my dear?  You’re really much too old to sulk like this.”

“You’re much too old.”

“Crowley, please.”  With a deep breath, he set his hand on the wing.  “At least let me thank you for doing my wings?  They feel … they feel marvelous.”

“Of course they do, I know what I’m doing,” Crowley said, his wings slowly opening so he could glare out with yellow eyes.  “Unlike some people.”

“Indeed. I’m sorry.”  He offered a hopeful smile.

Crowley looked him over for deceit and whatever he saw made him open his wings more.  “So you want to thank me again?” he said suavely.

“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale said.

The demon pouted.  “After I did all that hard work.”

“You serpent,” the angel said, but he still felt guilty and it was such a harmless little thing.  So again he leaned forward and met the demon.  He felt Crowley’s wings stretch and wrap around them, felt his own wings instinctively respond.  It left them in a private layer of feathers and muscle, muffled sound and dark and scented with the natural oils of their feathers.

It might have been a carry-over feeling from their mutual preening, the gentle relaxation that had at least gone through Aziraphale, the calm spreading of nostalgia and comfort.

“None of that, angel,” Crowley whispered against his lips.

“Hmm?”

“I can _feel_ you being all soppy.  Is just a bit of fun, don’t make a big deal out of it,” Crowley said even as he trailed hell-branded kisses against the angel’s jawline.

“Fun?”

“Don’t be like that,” Crowley complained.

“What do you think we are doing?” Aziraphale asked curiously.

“I know a trick question when I hear it, you first.”

Honestly, Aziraphale wasn’t sure what they were doing, but it didn’t feel wrong, and as an angel, he was certain he’d know if he was doing something wrong.  It was part of his job description.  And in Heaven it wasn’t so very unusual for someone to preen another’s wings, to lean against another and simply talk.[9]  Crowley was an angel as well, albeit a Fallen while he, Aziraphale, remained On High, and he couldn’t imagine demons changing so very much from how they were before. 

“I suppose we are merely acting to our basic natures.”

“Wh-what?”

“What did you think?”

“Just … goofing off?”[10]

“Well, that might be your basic nature,” Aziraphale said.

“You know what you’re about, angel?”

“What a strange question.  If you don’t want to, we can stop.”

Crowley glared in the dark, at the angel’s innocent face.  “Is that a challenge?”

“Dear me, whatever—”

He was cut off when Crowley kissed him again, and it wasn’t worth the effort to talk.  This was nice, even with the slight burn on his lips, and his feathers fluffed and relaxed.  He could trail his fingers through Crowley’s wings and feel the other shudder with pleasure, take enjoyment in Crowley’s own petting.  He startled when Crowley did something really weird with his tongue, and he felt Crowley’s grin and his laughter against his chest.

And then Crowley had to break away to laugh aloud, hissing.  “Your facsssse.”

“You startled me,” he said, brushing his lips with his fingers to heal the burning.  “It was practically down my throat.”

Crowley kept hissing and playfully bit the angel’s throat.  And then he froze, because such an action on another demon would have ended very badly.  One did not go for another’s throat unless one meant to go for blood.  But the angel just presented it, so trusting, and Crowley couldn’t stop himself from stretching his jaw and biting just a little harder until the angel made a sound.  It was not exactly of pain, and part of him still wanted to press down harder, not until blood, just until … something, but Hell-learned self-preservation made Crowley loosen his jaw.  He pressed his nose against the area, tongue flicking to feel the warmth.

The bite and subsequent pressure had surprised Aziraphale, the subtle points of fangs against his jugular, but as Crowley hadn’t harmed him, he didn’t complain.  Each to their own, he supposed, and it hadn’t felt completely uncomfortable.  It tickled now, Crowley’s nose and tongue against his skin, and his hair rubbing his nose, and Aziraphale giggled.

“What do you want to do, angel?” Crowley asked.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale answered, just leaning his forehead against the demon’s, nose tips touching.  They could look into the other’s eyes and speak quietly and the rest of the world would fade far away. 

Crowley tugged a strand of Aziraphale’s curls.  “It could be better.”

“Don’t be greedy.”

“Demon.  Part of my job.”

They kissed again, engaged in the dark, and spoke quiet teases or complaints at each other, wings pressing them closer until there was not a space between either, feathers like an additional embrace.   The longer it went on, the deeper they fell into a blissful trance.  It was a balancing act that was routinely abused as one greedily took what the other offered, the visceral pleasure passing between.

It wasn’t a sexual pleasure.  That was too human for either of them, too much effort for so little payoff, and truth be told, one neither enjoyed indulging in personally.  Their work involved humans, and while _inspiring_ a human or two was quite all right and sometimes rather hilarious, becoming an active participant was a line both tried to not cross.  Aziraphale found it all too bothersome, having to remember about the hormones and glands, and then there was the whole nephilim problem and he certainly didn’t want to add to that.  Crowley didn’t enjoy the whole _expectations_ humans were starting to have if they found out he was a demon, and it was annoying that humans never seemed to pull their share, making him decide it was beneath him, as a Demon, to have to do all the work.  In any case, human sexuality had so far left a bad taste in both of their mouths, the alien concept neither were interested in visiting again until humans got it all straightened out.

No, what both felt was something simpler, older, and possibly purer.  In the least, it was something both of them understood, however it was each understood it.  Angels and Demons were beings of energy, of power and light and sound.  They could press against each other down to the atoms, the electrons and neutrons and protons, to the quantum and beyond, the pressure hot and bright, coal turning to diamond, the lightning flash and thunder crash, a star bursting to a nebula.  Pure energy trying to join again, pulsing, energy from the beginning of it all, as they had been, as they were, as they would be.

But of course, they couldn’t join.  They were opposites, Angel and Demon, On High and Fallen, and it was like they were on either side of a pane of glass, both pressing against it with desperation.  And perhaps their efforts were worthy, if the analogy was be completed, as spider web cracks formed under the glass between their hands allowing their energies to mingle in those small spaces. 

But that would just be an analogy, not what was really happening.  It was only two beings enjoying a building pleasure and chasing it to the end, whatever it would be.

Because all things end, and there was no blinding burst of pleasure, no thrashing and shivering.  It was just a mutual slowing and coming back down, the energy fading, and eventually their wings dropped to expose them.  Both were covered in burns and bite marks, and when they separated each started healing the worst on themselves.

Crowley finished first, less concerned with healing every mark, and he stretched his jaw and neck, moving his shoulders as if to get a crick out.  His wings extended and delivered one powerful thrust.

“Really, was that necessary?” Aziraphale complained, brushing back his hair that had blown over his face.

“Yes.  Look what you did to my robe.”

“Look at my robe.  And my hair.”

“Your robe should be thrown away.  And your hair was a mess even before I got at it.”

Aziraphale gave up finger-combing it.  “It’s the curls.”

“You should just cut it.  More manageable.”

“I don’t think it would be proper,” Aziraphale said, but wistful.  “This is how He made me.”

“If you think He really cares about your hair, I hate to break it to you, angel, but He doesn't.”

“He cares for all His children.  Even you.”

“He can take His care and shove it,” Crowley said amiably. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale scolded but without heart.  Instead, he smiled.  “What shall you do now?”

Crowley shrugged and knocked his knuckles against a tall tree, giving it a speculative look.  “I’m thinking I’ll head to the peninsula.  I’ve heard things are getting interesting there, and there are vineyards everywhere.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you soon, then.  I’m sure I’ll be ordered in the area in a century or two.  Maybe sooner if you’re wrong about the vineyards.”

Crowley laughed.  “At least you don’t think it’ll be because I’ll work harder.”  He stood up and extended his hand.  “Come on, angel.  A drink on me, before I hit the road.  I gotta see how that baby’s doing, for my report.”

“I won’t let you hurt him.  Or her.  Oh, I don’t even know its name,” Aziraphale said, taking the help.  “Don’t make me have to make you leave.”

“Trust me, you couldn’t make me stay in this dirt-town,” Crowley said, wrapping an arm around the angel’s shoulder.

They went down to the road and started towards the village, Crowley musing on what he’d see and all the trouble he could cause, Aziraphale shaking his head and trying to suggest a more morally centered itinerary.  At the gates, the beggar man held up his bowl and Aziraphale placed in a small copper coin while Crowley put in two gold pieces.

“That is so generous of you, my dear!” Aziraphale beamed.  “I knew there was good in you.”

“You do know he drinks everything away, don’t you, angel?”

“He does—does that child have my basket?  That is!  Oh I’m sorry, I just have to get that before –oh dear.  Perhaps we can get that drink when we see next?” Aziraphale called, rushing to the child who had already gained a small crowd, and grasped the basket before even more food could be pulled out.

Crowley grinned as the angel likely started in a moralistic lesson about not taking someone’s belongings and completely ignoring the displeased crowd.  Yeah, he didn’t need to stick around to make this place miserable.

He turned back towards road out, musing that the huts looked a bit different from his prior view off the ground and wondering where his horse was, hoped it’d stay there, and speculatively looked at his options.  He found one that suited him, cheated the owner, and managed to mount on the fourth or sixth try, who was counting?  Behind him he heard Aziraphale’s voice loudly protesting the basket was _his_ , not the child’s, didn’t they remember, and Crowly hissed to himself.

The demon’s mood brightened even more when he saw the beggar was gone, the only proof of his presence Aziraphale’s bowl that only contained two feathers, and soon the wind took those as well.

 

[1] But not _too_ strongly worded.  Just enough to show he was very displeased at being ordered to the area, while still managing to not insult the reader enough to actually come up and he’d have to fail making good on any threat he promised.  It was a delicate balance, and so far he had managed it by never actually sending said scrolls Down Below.  (He kept all of them he had ever written, all 6,352 of them.)  Hell was unfortunately filled will a lot of delicate souls who responded when their feelings were hurt by hurting him physically.

[2] For preference, _not_ his, which he still hadn’t managed to mount.  To be honest, he wasn’t even sure where the thing was, and he was in no hurry to find out.  Damned - literally - thing bit him.

[3] Negating to mention he had been a snake, which had no limbs to lose.

[4] Containing a liquid had been water when it had been filled.  In a couple thousand years, someone else would famously copy the trick and he would be very put out, claiming he had done it first.

[5] The only time he would ever be confronted with his old name would be if he was assigned some important job that required his old sigil, but the newly-minted Crowley was convinced no one would ever trust him with something _that_ important.

[6] Crowley didn’t say he didn’t remember because it had never happened, and even if it had, he would have politely declined.  (Politely, because they had delicate feelings and hard fists and he had delicate bones and hardly any brawn.)  He’d decided he didn’t really want to spend more time with any of them than he had to, and it wasn’t even because the last time he hung out with them he got kicked out of Heaven.  He hadn’t realized it back then, or maybe they’d just changed since then, but most of the citizens of Hell were not the sort he felt comfortable sharing a flask of wine or turning his back on.

[7] On the other side, sometimes you ended up with an extra one.

[8] Which he had also never eaten.

[9] As kissing another was not unusual in Heaven, Aziraphale decided to not focus too much on that particular detail.  As such, he conveniently did not have to explain it didn’t happen quite as frequently between two angels on friendly terms, let alone two supposed enemies.

[10] Crowley knew about some of the things that went on in Hell, perhaps similar to what the angel thought happened in Heaven.  Similar, in the same way picking flowers was the same as starting a forest fire.

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, Aziraphale and Crowley have always been possibly the worst set of enemies to exist. In the Garden of Eden, presumably after a Battle between Angels and Those-To-Become Demons and definitely after a No Demons Allowed In But One Got In and Made God Kick Out the Humans, they talk, if not like friends, then at least people that see each other every day in the elevator. There's absolutely no animosity that seems to be there during the Almost End of the World between the Legions of Hell and Heaven, or between Metatron and Beelzbub. They ended up forming an Arrangement and are Drinking Buddies, and it's even admitted in the book that Aziraphale has only ever needed to ask Crowley to leave to get rid of him. That, in the least, does not inspire the great support for them fighting to the Death in Great Duels between Heaven and Hell, which is a pity. 
> 
> So in this tale, they've been stuck on Earth, alone, for a 1000 years, basically ignored by their respective factions, and of course they're going to talk. It's what they apparently do.
> 
> While I love stories with them in those kind of relationships, this isn't a love story or any sort of romance. It's about the effect of isolation and two beings, who don't see any reason to kill each other, coping the best they can in a world that isn't either of theirs, and being unable or unwilling to connect to what would be.
> 
> So every couple of centuries they probably get up in a similar situation.


End file.
